


thieves in the temple

by downmoon



Series: a lifetime [5]
Category: The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms, The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild
Genre: & some minor violence, A plot emerges, M/M, a small warning for prejudice/racism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-02-25 23:46:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13223763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/downmoon/pseuds/downmoon
Summary: Link's quest takes them to the desert, and Sheik takes matters into his own hands.





	thieves in the temple

**Author's Note:**

> so, i've been picking at this thing for a month now. it's definitely more plot heavy than the other one shots in the series, but it doesn't quite stand alone- read those other one shots before you read this, if you're new to the series. 
> 
> also i beat botw and i am Affected.
> 
> ALSO, please check out the lovely artwork now featured in the story! i commissioned [ollie,](http://caecia.tumblr.com/) and he was an absolute delight to work with. i'm so happy with the end results ^^

At some point between descending from the mountains in the tundra, acclimating to moving and eating and speaking again, and convincing Link that no, he would not just sit still while Link was traipsing about Hyrule searching for his princess, he missed the enormous... _monster_ perched atop a cliff, wings spread wide as if it could take off at any moment. To be fair, the snows in the tundra fall heavy and often; simply managing to clamber down the mountain without injuring himself was a miracle in and of itself, so perhaps he can be forgiven his lack of observation. But now, seeing the beast as it sits atop its perch has Sheik’s heart caught somewhere in his throat, every shred of logic dissipating as fear bleeds black through his thoughts.

“Link?” he calls, but the word comes out too faint to be of any use. Sheik clears his throat and tries again. “Link? What is that _thing_ up there?”

Link turns around, a roasted acorn cracking between his teeth. He follows the line of Sheik’s finger, where he points towards the huge bird-monster, then turns around once again. He has the audacity to grin at Sheik as he crunches the acorn. “Divine Beast,” he calls back, “Vah Medoh. Cleansed from the Calamity’s influence.”

He tugs gently on the reins in his hand, until his horse’s pace matches Rosie’s. He's reached into a saddlebag and pulled out an apple now, and he takes a big bite from the crisp fruit, gesturing vaguely towards the Beast. “That's the first Divine Beast I was able to free,” he tells Sheik around the apple in his mouth.

“The first?” Sheik questions, mildly horrified. “How many are there?”

“Four. Two that I've found, two more to locate.” Link takes another big bite of his apple, and speaks casually, as if Sheik isn’t petrified in his saddle. “It was so cold up there, “ he says, “that after I landed back down in the village –”

“Landed? You were up in that thing?!”

“Well, yes. How else was I going to cleanse it?”

He continues on like he hasn’t noticed Sheik’s wide eyes, the tremble in his hands. “It was so cold up there, I asked where the warmest region of Hyrule was. They sent me to Death Mountain.”

Link points towards the east, and Sheik only now notices a faint red light emitted from the Beast up on the cliff. He follows the line to what must be Hyrule Castle, and discovers the unmistakable silhouette of Death Mountain in the distance. If he squints he can make out a faint shape perched on top of the volcano, a shape dotted with delicate blue lights. There is another red beam coming from this shape and landing its sights on the Castle.

“I almost died on that crater,” Link says. He does so casually, like he’s discussing the weather or giving Sheik his gentle instructions about caring for the horses. “That’s why I ended up in the mountains again, once I recovered from the heat stroke. Wanted to be somewhere cold again.”

“You’re a fool,” Sheik blurts out, before he can stop himself. He doesn’t mean it unkindly, but he still regrets the words the instant they hit his tongue. They come from a place of worry, of his own ignorance surrounding this all-important task Link won’t tell him about, of his own frightened heart. Link, though, smiles slightly, like he agrees with Sheik’s words, and nudges his horse into a quicker pace. Rosie nickers, and follows of her own volition.

The desert, Link had told him that morning, when he finally seemed to realize Sheik would follow him on his own if necessary. He was going to seek out the Gerudo, to seek out their aid or their rumored turmoil, he hadn’t said, but it remains a destination clearly tied to this secretive quest Link had set for himself.

Sheik takes another look skywards, to the great bird perched high above, and tries to ignore the cold chill of fear that still grips him. He has no reason to be afraid of something that appears so immobile, but there’s some nagging instinct in the back of his mind that makes him feel flighty, nervous. Almost like he’s seen the familiar silhouette bearing down on him before, an old memory that makes no sense. He shakes his head, dislodging the thoughts before they grow bigger and more irrational, and squares his shoulders as Rosie catches up to Link’s steed. Sheik catches a glimpse of his face as the mountains to the west cast their shadows over them both; the boyish nonchalance and mild amusement from earlier is gone. Instead, something like steely determination has etched itself across his features. Sheik averts his eyes and shudders, this time for a reason other than terror.

 

The desert is unmistakable. It’d taken them another three days from sighting the Divine Beast in the mountains to reach the winding canyon that would lead them to the Gerudo Desert, and as soon as they entered the canyon proper, Sheik could feel the difference in environment right away. The air got drier and hotter the longer they traveled, like the sun was sinking closer to the earth.

Link is the first to pull off his travel cloak, unclasping its fastenings at his throat and stuffing it into one of his saddlebags. A little while later and Sheik catches Link fanning himself with a hand. And then pulling at the collar of his tunic. And then fishing out his water skin.

“You don’t fair so well in warm climates, do you?” Sheik asks, as Rosie matches pace with Link. He turns to look at Sheik, disgruntled, and there’s already a flush to his skin.

“Heat stroke,” he says, “Death Mountain.”

“Ah, right. I doubt the desert is any comparison to a region inhabited by an active volcano, but we’ll take precaution all the same.”

Link nods, but Sheik’s not so sure he’s paying much attention. He’s fanning his face again, loosening the cap to his water skin with his free hand. It makes Sheik smile just the slightest bit, this almost instant reaction to the changing terrain.

“How do you handle cold?” he asks.

“Better than the heat,” Link answers shortly. True, Sheik did recall Link’s ruddy cheeks in the Resurrection cave, the odd bout of stamping he’d do in the corner when he wasn’t keeping himself busy with the fire or organizing his packs or fussing over extra clothes for Sheik. But it was nothing he complained about, and nothing he visibly reacted to. Sheik suspects _he_ had the harder time in the cold; it took him hours after their descent to stop shivering. Link must be used to it, or efficient at layering his clothing.

“You have ingredients for elixirs, do you not?” Sheik asks.

“Yes, I suppose so,” Link replies, “but I’m not sure I know any recipes for cooling potions.”

Sheik nods his head, turning his attention back to the road. A problem they can easily overcome, he’s sure of it. There’s bound to be some sort of settlement before they reach the desert proper.

“We’ll figure something out,” he says, mostly to himself. A hint of movement on the road ahead has him distracted, and he squints against the sun to try to make it out. A whole minute must go by with no further movement in the distance, but Sheik’s gaze doesn't waver from that spot. There – another abrupt movement, the clatter of a rock falling loose from the canyon walls, the nervous grunts of the horses. A flash of red and gray skin, the sounds of war cries on the gentle winds.

“Bokoblins,” they both say at the same time. “How many?” Link asks.

“Can't tell. At least two, but from the sound of all that racket they're making, more than that.”

Link nods sharply and dismounts without a word, leading his horse over to the edge of the canyon. Sheik follows suit.

“Is there a plan?” he asks lowly, although it's highly unlikely the Bokoblins know there is company on the road. But Link merely shrugs, unstrapping the old sword on his back. To Sheik he hands off the bow and quiver, since Sheik’s only weapon is currently a knife.

“We sneak, we kill,” Link answers. It's painfully straightforward, and Sheik rolls his eyes even as he fights off a smile. Leave it to Link to come up with the most cunning of battle tactics.

“Ready when you are,” Link bites out,  perhaps a tad too testy at Sheik’s apparent amusement. Sheik clears his throat but doesn't bother trying to hide the smile anymore. Link just huffs and begins his careful trail forward.

It's over almost instantly. Sheik hangs back, having found a decent perch atop a boulder just far enough out of sight that he can remain mostly hidden. Link continues on towards the encampment, drawing silently nearer to the biggest Bokoblin in the camp. A sword is driven through its belly, and the creature is dead before it even knows what happened. Sheik looses an arrow at nearly the same moment, and two Bokoblins fall dead to the dusty ground. Three more stand in confusion, their heads tilting as they try to make sense of their comrades dropping, and two more fall to the cold bite of a blade and the song of an arrow piercing the air. The last creature catches on to what's happening a second too late; Link slashes at the thing before it can even draw its weapon, but it takes another hit or two until it lies still on the ground.

Scavenging has become nearly second nature to Sheik now. As soon as Link sheaths his sword, he takes another look around the canyon. Sensing no further movement, Sheik slips off the boulder he’d taken refuge on and pulls out his short knife to start gutting the corpses. Sheik grunts at the smell of the dead body in front of him, but otherwise works quickly and efficiently. The first time he'd witnessed Link gathering monster parts after a skirmish, he'd been surprised how easily Link fell to his tasks. He's too kind, too soft–hearted for this war– torn destiny that had been laid upon him. He hates to kill animals, told Sheik as much when he fumbled with his bow after surprising a herd of deer. But he has no hesitation when it comes to gathering things to be sold or ground into elixirs.

“Check the crates,” Sheik says, when he starts on the third body. Link nods, tucking fangs and guts into a rucksack, and leaving it next to Sheik. Glancing over his shoulder, Sheik only witnesses Link battering the edge of one of the crates with a stone for a brief second, before he turns his attention back to his work.

He wipes sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, careful to mind the sticky blood on his fingers. The rucksack is not full, but the corpses have been picked over thoroughly. Sheik wears the evidence of such on his hands.

“Did you find anything?” Sheik calls to Link. He has the second crate in pieces, and fishes through the bits of wood, scavenging for anything valuable.

“Not much,” Link calls back. He straightens up and turns to show Sheik an armful of sad, shriveled looking apples, a handful of arrows, an interesting bottle. “I think I found a cooling elixer, though.”

He shifts until he can grab the bottle, and hold it out to Sheik. One touch of his fingertips against the glass is convincing enough.

“Yes, I’d say that’s a cooling elixer,” Sheik says, trying to shake off the sudden, shocking sensation of ice burning against his skin. “Drink it before you pass out.”

Link doesn’t need to be told twice. He’s already fumbling the seal off the bottle, but he pauses as a thought seems to cross his mind.

“Shouldn’t you have some, too?” he asks. Sheik’s attention was already halfway back to the rucksack and his abandoned quiver, and it takes him a beat to realize Link’s speaking to him.

“Oh,” Sheik says, “no, I'm fine.”

Link frowns at him, and he looks almost ready to force the issue. Sheik waves him off before he can play his hand at Mother Hen. “I don't think the heat affects me like it affects you,” Sheik says.

“Do you think you lived in the desert before?” It's a fair enough question, and if Sheik’s learned one thing about Link in the weeks they've spent in each other's company, it's that Link is insatiably curious, so he's quite sure Link asks because he genuinely wonders. But, it's a question Sheik hadn't even thought to ask himself, and hearing it wondered aloud brings him to pause.

“I… suppose it's certainly possible,” Sheik answers, “although I didn't assume any of the Sheikah lived in the desert regions of Hyrule.”

“They all live in Kakariko,” Link says, “I think. They could've lived out here a hundred years ago, but I can't remember.”

“Yes,” Sheik mumbles, “I suppose you're right.” He's positive it's just a trick of his imagination, a suggestion simply planted too firmly in his mind, but he almost remembers something, a sliver of a thought that feels a little too real to be imagined. He can almost picture a mighty sun sinking into the night sky, the feel of hot sand between his bare toes. Someone by his side, someone –

One of the horses whinnies behind them, and the noise shakes Sheik out of the daydream he'd fallen into. There is no sand in the canyon, only red dust, and the sun sits heavy like a golden coin in the blue sky. Link is watching him carefully, like how he watches the horses when something has them spooked. Sheik brushes off that piercing look, and picks up the rucksack.

“We should get going,” he says softly. He doesn't wait for Link to follow.

 

Their journey through the canyon remains uneventful after their stop. They meet a man desperate for a horse, and he tries to buy one of theirs, but Link is so horrified by the simple notion that Sheik hurries them off with hardly an explanation. He feels for the man's plight, he really does, but he's grown fond enough of Rosie that selling her seems nearly cruel, and she's technically not his horse. Plus, they ran into a few herds of wild horses near the mouth of the canyon. It would be a long walk to capture a horse, but not impossible. He did manage to leave the man with a few rations before hurrying off, just in case he needed them.

It wasn't too long after that meeting that Link first spotted the stable, tucked away around a corner, neatly hidden in the cool shadows cast by the canyon’s wall. Link dismounts before his horse has even come to a stop in front of the stable. His cheeks are red, and at the collar of his shirt, Sheik spots a flush creeping over his chest. Sheik follows more sedately, leading Rosie by her reins to the alcove along the side of the building. Link already has his horse tied to a post, saddle off, brushing him with long, quick strokes.

“Let me do it,” Sheik says, fastening Rosie’s reins to another post, “you go inside and find out what you can about the desert.”

Link fixes him with such a glare that Sheik almost bursts out into laughter. “I’m not helpless,” he says.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You _suggested_ it.”

“I did not.”

“You did.”

“Even if I did–” Sheik relents, “-which I didn’t, you’re already proving my point. Your face is flushed, you’re sweating, and you can’t take off another layer without running about naked. No one said you’re helpless–” Sheik catches Link’s wrist, a firm grip meant to catch his attention. “And no one says you have to do this all on your own. I’m only offering to help.”

It’s an argument they’ve already discussed what must be hundreds of times by now, and Link staunchly refuses each time, but something must shutter into place for him. The hard edges to his face soften and melt away, and he looks very young and very fragile for an instant under the afternoon sun. Sheik squeezes his wrist just a touch tighter, then loosens his grip to pull away. There is a moment, a heartbeat, where he feels inexplicably protective, like a long-dormant instinct kicking up in a windstorm. Link looks so young in his eyes, a boy burdened with an immense destiny that’s slowly crushing him, and Sheik’s breath is caught in his throat. But the moment passes, his heart continues to beat, and the vulnerability in Link’s face passes like a cloud across the sun.

“I’m almost done brushing,” Link murmurs, “but I’ll leave you to take care of Rosie. We’ll...rest. Make a plan for travel.”

“That’s good. That’s a good idea, Link.”

Link nods his head, continuing his brush strokes, quick, efficient, done within a matter of minutes, Sheik watching but not really paying attention. He hands the brush off and gathers up his bags, heading into the cool relief of the stable. Sheik stares after him, brush held in one hand.

“Your master is difficult,” Sheik says under his breath, as he begins to brush Rosie down. “Such a stubborn boy. But he’s coming around, isn’t he?” Rosie huffs, and Sheik smiles at her agreement.

 

“We’ll have to travel by foot. The horses won’t do well in the sand or the heat, and they told me there’s some cliffs we’ll have to navigate before we actually get into the desert. We’ll have to leave early tomorrow morning, before sunrise, and we should make it to the Bazaar by midday. Avoid most of the heat that way.”

They’re hunched over a dusty map, worn and cracked with age. Link draws his finger over what must be a well-worn route, their route to the Kara Kara Bazaar. It’s a pit stop before they actually set out for Gerudo Town, but it’s necessary, to make sure they don’t wander off into the desert.

“From there, we’ll leave at dusk for Gerudo Town. They said the desert gets cold at night, but it’s more bearable than traveling after midday,” Link goes on to say. “We’ll be able to stock up on some supplies, and then head to the Town.”

“How long will the journey be?”

“A few hours to get to the Town from the Bazaar. If everything goes well we’ll get there before midnight day after tomorrow.”

Sheik nods, contemplative, staring at the map. Link worries over his bottom lip with his teeth, looking between the map and the Sheikah slate, likely comparing the landscape on both.

“No alternate routes?” Sheik asks.

“Not really. Unless we want to scale these cliffs.” He points to a section on the map. Sheik frowns and shakes his head.

“Unappealing.”

Link hums in agreement.

“So,” Sheik says, “we’re looking at two or three days’ travel, from here to the Town.”

“Yep.”

“Gerudo Town?”

They both look up, startled by the interjection of a stranger. He's a gruff looking man, tanned and gnarled from spending time in the sun out in the canyon. He chuckles before either one can answer.

“You’ll be hard pressed to get into the Town. There's a monster out there in the desert, kicking up a mighty sandstorm day and night. Almost all travel to and from the desert has stopped because of it, and those that are stupid enough to attempt a journey in the desert hardly make it back.”

“Nevertheless,” Sheik says primly, carefully folding the old map, “we intend to take the journey all the way to Gerudo Town.”

The man scoffs. Sheik shifts under the gaze he suddenly feels running over his body.

“Unless you boys aren't what you seem to be, you'll never make it in the Town.”

“I hardly think–”

“They don't let men in.”

Sheik opens his mouth, but finds he has nothing to say beyond sputtered surprise.

“And even if you were to somehow find yourselves granted entry to the Town, this one –” The man lays one heavy hand on Sheik’s shoulder, “wouldn't last so long. Those women don't much care for Sheikah.”

Sheik is more startled by the shriek of Link’s chair scraping over the wooden floor than he is by this man's sheer audacity. In an instant, Link is standing, slipping around the table with a kind of fighting grace that has to be a result of his habits from the past. He has no weapon, but he slips effortlessly into the space between Sheik and the other man, and stands firm, a petite spark of fury blazing bright.

The man releases his grip from Sheik’s shoulder and takes a step back. Bewilderment paints his face, and he looks almost fearful, even if Link barely comes up to his chin.

“Hey, now–!”

“What do you mean, he won't last long?” Link demands.

“You’ve got a lot of spirit, kid,” the man answers, a slow smirk curling over his mouth, “more spirit than the rest of us ‘round here. The Gerudo, they don’t take too kindly to Sheikah. They've been having trouble with the Yiga Clan.”

Link stands in front of him, at such an angle that Sheik can't see his face, but the way his body stiffens at the mention of this Yiga Clan is obvious. Link has at least heard of them before, and they likely weren't good things.

“Yiga Clan?” he hisses through his teeth. “What do you know of them?”

“Their hideout is in the desert somewhere. Goddess knows why they’d choose the desert, but then again, not too many are foolish enough to go wandering out there.” The man turns his head, a bit of the amusement slipping off his face. “You look like you’ve had a run in with them before.”

Link doesn’t answer. The man frowns in response, and shifts back another step.

“Don't mess with the Yiga Clan, boy. Just leave whatever foolish thought drove you to come out to the desert behind. Go back to your homes.”

“We can't,” Sheik finally pipes up. “We have business to attend to and we must see it through.”

The man fixes him with a long look, but Sheik meets his gaze evenly. Finally the man scoffs, and waves a hand at the both of them.

“Can't say someone didn't warn you,” he says. “If you insist on journeying into the desert, make sure you're well prepared. There's a merchant around here somewhere, and an old Gerudo at the Bazaar. They'll both help you out with supplies.” The man pauses, lifting his hand to scratch idly at his beard. “I’d hate to see young ones like you losing your lives to the desert.”

“We don't plan on losing anything in the desert,” Sheik replies tartly. Link finally relaxes his stance a bit, and catches Sheik’s eye over his shoulder.

“No one ever plans to,” the man says. “Go with the luck of the Goddess.” He steps away from their table with a quick wave of his hand. Link turns to look at Sheik fully as soon as he's out of sight.

“He's an odd one,” Sheik murmurs.

“I don't like what he said,” Link says. He comes back around the table but doesn't sit down again; instead, he hovers near his seat, like he's ready to spring into action again. Sheik would normally take this as an opportunity to tease, but the man's words and warnings have given him a lot to think about, and it's left him distracted.

“Which part? The near certain death we face in the desert, or the near certain death we face at the hands of the Gerudo?”

Link frowns at him, no doubt exasperated with his sarcasm, but there's also a touch of something else in his face. Like he's worried.

“Or does it have to do with this mysterious Yiga Clan?” Sheik asks. The name is nearly familiar to him, but he can't place _why,_ and there's a certain madness to not knowing one's own thoughts as well as they should. “Who are they?”

It’s a simple question, one Sheik asks out of his own curiosity, but Link shifts ever so slightly, almost dropping his gaze from Sheik’s.

“They’re defectors,” he starts, then stops. Shifts again. “They’re Sheikah that’ve sworn their allegiance to Ganon.”

It’s strange, the sense Sheik gets. Like he _should_ feel something. Shock, or hurt, or anger, maybe. The Sheikah are _his_ people, but they’re so unknown to him, so impossibly distant to him, that he feels nothing. He takes the information as if it were a clue to some larger puzzle, and fills in another gap in is foggy, century-old memories.

“And they defected before the Calamity?”

“I think so.”

“Do you think they assisted Ganon?”

“I...you mean, _they_ brought about the Calamity?”

“I don’t know. That’s what I’m asking.”

Link stares at him, and all his discomfort from earlier melts away in seconds. He looks nearly appalled now, horrified at the idea Sheik’s just presented to him.

“It’s just a thought,” Sheik says, an offhand comment meant to break the mood. “Nothing serious.”

“Yeah,” Link says absently.

Sheik gently clears his throat, and turns his attention back to the worn map in front of him. “We're going to get into the Town. We must meet with the chief– he, ah, rather _she_ – will likely have information on this Divine Beast.”

“Yes.”

“Okay,” Sheik says, nodding sharply to himself, “how?”

 

“This is not what I had in mind.”

Even with a delicate veil obscuring most of his features, Sheik can still see the smile on Link’s face. It's the crinkle of his eyes that gives it away, that amusement he always seems to find in the face of Sheik’s irritation.

Sheik clicks his tongue, and smooths his hand down the back of his own veil. It's a complicated attachment; the veil is fastened with a golden string that's woven into his braid, and the gentle tug he feels with every step has him concerned about the piece slipping.

The short of it was: sneak into the city, avoid detection, find the chief, defeat the Divine Beast. The long of it involved the two of them arriving in the Bazaar, facing the harsh reality that their plan probably wasn't going to work, and in the worst case scenario, get them killed, and subsequently taking action to form a new plan. A plan that involved Sheik threatening a Hylian ‘woman’ into giving them each a set of Gerudo clothes traditionally worn by the _vai,_ and walking through the front gate.

“Certainly doesn't leave much to the imagination, does it?” Sheik asks. He's not expecting an answer, and Link doesn't give him one, but he's desperately curious as to why Link appears to be so at ease in this outfit.

Not that he's particularly uncomfortable. It's dusk, the Bazaar already an hour behind them, and the sands are still roiling with heat from the day. The outfit is surprisingly comfortable in the temperature. It's just a matter of the cut and the hems digging into places he hasn't had need to think about in a while.

… It is very pretty, though.

Sheik considers striking up another conversation, but he has the feeling it will be one sided if he does, and decides against it. He trudges on quietly by Link's side, watching the desert. They didn't run into any trouble on their way to the Bazaar, and the desert feels so still and peaceful that he could almost be tricked into letting his guard down. No wonder so many people get lost out here. Even the sandstorms that spring up out of nowhere are far enough away that they don't seem all that threatening. There's been one brewing on the horizon all afternoon; Sheik had kept an eye on it as they made their preparations to travel to Gerudo Town, but it had remained at its distance. Now, though, there's something strange to it. As sunlight gathers its surrounding cloak of darkness, Sheik notices random flashes of light within the storm. Lightning, he realizes after a moment of staring. It sends a chill down his spine, not quite terror, but something closer to mighty awe. And then a shadow looms up in the middle of the storm.

Sheik’s breath catches in his throat as this figure surges up within the sandstorm, silhouetted by lightning. He reaches out almost blindly and grabs Link’s arm.

“Link – what–”

He's interrupted by an unearthly cry, a bellow that echoes out across the desert. It rattles his bones, shakes him right down to the essence of his being. The sound has him cringing, but Link stands solid beside him. He makes no move until the creature stops its cries and disappears into the sandstorm again.

“Are you frightened?” he asks in a low rasp. Sheik nods, still too shaken to even think about forcing words out of his mouth. His heart is battering against his ribs; even from this distance, the creature– the Divine Beast, it must be– was larger than life.

“Why?” Link asks. He’s looking over his shoulder at Sheik, who still cowers behind him. He lets go of Link’s wrist and tries to stand a little taller, but some instinct curls low in his gut. It’s just like with Vah Medoh; something is clamoring for him to flee, to turn heel and run far away from the Divine Beast. He does not need to answer Link’s question. He _knows_ it’s an almost ridiculous fear. The distance of the Beast, its obvious lack of speed, they aren’t factors weighing in the creature’s favor. But Sheik can’t shake that instinct, that fear that chokes his breath in his lungs.

“Are you not?” Sheik asks in a near-breathless whisper. Link turns away, focusing his attention on the sandstorm still raging on the horizon.

“No, he answers evenly. Lightning still seems to flash within the storm, but it’s faint, like the nightmare is settling down. Link watches passively, the burning copper tones of sunset streaking across his skin and turning his fair complexion to gold. “They don’t need to be feared,” he says, “they need to be helped. They’ve been poisoned for a long time, and their masters…” He trails off, watching the storm cloud. Sheik doesn’t have the presence of mind to press him on what he meant.

“We should move on,” Link says after a heartbeat. “The town is still far, and we’re losing light quickly.” He doesn’t wait to see if Sheik will follow, just begins the trek to Gerudo Town anew.

 

They arrive at the Town just as the moon takes its peak turn in the sky. Much to Link’s protest, Sheik believed he could pass for a Hylian _vai_ in the dim light of the Town. His hair was more blonde than white, and his eyes, if he wasn’t standing directly near a light source, could pass for a deep brown rather than ruby red. Link hadn’t said much at all in their entire time during the desert, but this he protested vehemently, running the strength of his voice ragged and raspy. It was sweet, in a way, that Link cared enough to argue against Sheik hiding his race, but Sheik was not so attached to the pride of a culture he doesn’t know that he’d be willing to risk the wrath of the Gerudo, whether it was an unfounded anger or not.

“You don’t have to do this,” Link tries again in a whisper as they approach the Town’s gate.

“We are not sneaking over the wall,” Sheik murmurs back. “If they catch us, we’ll be thrown out. I’d rather have a chance to actually get _in_ the Town than ruin it right away.”

“But–”

“Shh, look.”

Sheik jerks his head forward, gesturing to the two Gerudo women at the gate. He shifts the pack strapped across his back a little higher, seeking to ease some of the strain on his shoulders. The motion drives the dagger at the small of his back a little harder into his skin. He doesn’t mind; it’s reassuring to have the blade close by, just in case.

Link frowns beside him, but keeps his mouth shut. He rolls his shoulders back, like he’s shrugging out of his own self and into someone new. By the time they reach the gate, Sheik marvels a little at the ease in which Link drops himself into character.

_“Sav’saaba,”_ one of the guards calls when they step into the circle of light created by the torches. “You are out late.” She speaks carefully, her words laced with a rich accent. Her eyes sweep over the pair of them, and Sheik is careful to drop his own gaze. “Two Hylian _vai!”_ she says. “We do not get many Hylian in the desert. Why are you here?”

“We’re travelers,” Link answers softly, “we’ve come to trade.”

The Gerudo guard hums and nods her head, but makes no move to let them in. “And her?” she asks, pointing her spear towards Sheik.

“Trade. We’re both here to trade.”

“Does she not speak for herself?”

“No,” Link starts. He hesitates, like he’s trying to come up with a suitable answer, and Sheik feels his heartbeat skitter, “she does not speak.” Link presses his fingertips to the dip of his collarbone, a gesture Sheik immediately recognizes as one made the day Link found him in the Resurrection cave. He wonders if the dry desert air bothers him, if he’s been so quiet not out of reflection but out of necessity. “She has not spoken since she was born.”

The Gerudo guard leans back at that, looking contemplative. “I understand,” she says. “Your journey has been long.” She steps to the side, and gestures with her spear. “There is an inn not too far from the plaza. You can find lodging there. I am sorry to have held you both here, but our Town, it has been plagued as of late.”

“I understand,” Link says. He steps quickly forward, Sheik sticking close behind him. “Thank you.”

She nods, and they make to pass her, only her spear tips out to block them. “You have gained our trust,” she says, low and clear. “You would do well not to break it. Do not make me regret giving you safe passage into the Town.”

They’re both staring at her

“Yes, yes, of course.” Link stumbles over his words as much as he nearly stumbles over his own feet in his rush to get by her. Only Sheik’s hand on his arm keeps him upright. But both guards let them pass without incident, even if they’re staring the two of them down. Sheik lets out a breath he didn’t realize he had been holding as soon as they’re safely within the town.

“She’s going to find out,” he whispers in Link’s ear. Link hushes him immediately.

“You can’t speak,” he whispers back.

“You can’t just take away my favorite thing to do.”

“I can, and I will.” They both fall silent, as a lone Gerudo walks by them both, openly staring.

“You have an accent,” Link murmurs, when she’s safely gone past. “The same accent I’ve heard every Sheikah I’ve met speak with.”

Sheik huffs, but can’t deny the point Link is making– it seems his century-long nap did nothing to erase the traces of who he once was. So he bites his tongue and points out the inn when Link nearly walks by it. He hadn't realized how tired he was until he's able to sit down on the firm bed, and then exhaustion hits him all at once.

“Tomorrow we seek out the chief?” he whispers as he's kicking off his shoes and untangling the veil from his hair. Link looks just as tired as he feels, and only nods as he lies down on his side. Sheik just barely remembers to snuff the candle before he settles down, asleep before his head hits the cushion.

 

Riju is a child.

It was less difficult than he would've imagined securing an audience with her, but his surprise truly comes when he and Link are guided into her palace. She sits on the throne with all the grace and authority any leader might have, except, her feet don't touch the ground. Sheik’s positive that if she were to stand up, Link, for once, would be taller than her. She's sharp, though, incredibly so, dismissing her guard and then tittering into her hand in a fit of giggles, quite delighted by their disguises. It throws Link for quite the loop. Clearly he expected to inquire about the Divine Beast rampaging on the horizon with some sort of feigned nonchalance and just be on his way. But Riju starts laughing almost as soon as Link starts his not so subtle line of questioning, effectively knocking the wind out of his sails.

“I must admit,” she says, when she manages to catch her breath, “that this is a new one for our Town. Many _voe_ have tried to sneak their way in, even some in disguise, but none have ever succeeded.”

“We're just looking for information,” Link says, rather sheepishly.

“I won't share your secret,” Riju answers. “You both make far too lovely _vai,_ it is no wonder you could get in through our gate.”

“Yes, well,” Sheik interrupts, clearing his throat, “we only seek out the Divine Beast. Point us in its direction and we'll be happy to leave.”

When Sheik speaks, the change in Riju is instantaneous. The giggly child playing leader on her mother’s throne is gone; a hard edge laces her movements, her sharp eyes that much sharper. “Link,” she says settling back into her throne, “what is the Champion doing with a Sheikah?”

“That is of no concern,” Link says coldly. Beneath his veil, Sheik bites at his bottom lip, chagrined by his own slip of the tongue. He'd been so careful, too, but the conversation had slipped out of his mouth before he'd even realized it. Figures Riju would pick up on his accent immediately.

“It is of great concern,” she says. “Surely you have heard of the Yiga Clan plaguing my people.”

“I have, but this is a Sheikah. They are not one in the same.”

“How do you know? The Yiga Clan were once noble Sheikah as well, but for a hundred years they have sworn their loyalty to the Calamity.”

“You dishonor them,” Link says softly. “The Sheikah have done more for the Crown than either one of us could even comprehend, and in return they have been ostracized because of the actions of few. Do not sully their history any more than the Yiga Clan already has.”

Sheik risks a glance to the side. Link stands almost directly in front of him, just enough to partially block him from sight. Another layer of protection that clearly was pointless, since Sheik can't keep his mouth shut long enough to keep his identity a secret.

It's tense between the three of them; Riju scowls upon her throne, staring at Link with a gaze sharp enough to pierce, but Link is unmoved. The line of his shoulders is relaxed, his spine straight, standing tall and yet gentle, an immovable object in the face of such unstoppable force.

It's beginning to feel like the meeting will drag on for an eternity, with Champion and Chief staring each other down. But it is Riju who caves first, collapsing her elegant posture with a sigh, and slumping down in her throne.

“Perhaps you are correct, Champion,” she says, “but it is not in our nature to be so trusting. I will not help you.”

“But–!”

_“Unless_. You help us. Prove your worthiness before you challenge our Divine Beast. The Yiga Clan has stolen our most precious heirloom. Their hideout is somewhere in the valley, but none of our soldiers have been able to locate it, not for lack of trying. Find this, and return it to me. I will help you then.” Riju’s eyes slide from Link and settle on Sheik. “You hear, Sheikah? Bring me the heirloom, and I will assist your Champion.”

“That’s not fair,” Link says, but Riju’s waving them both off.

“The city guard can give you information on the Yiga Clan. Buliara!” The guard slips easily into the throne room at Riju’s call. “Show them to the barracks. They are to seek out the Yiga Clan, and will need all the help they can get.”

Buliara steps in front of them without a word of protest. Link and Sheik step backwards merely because of her presence, although there’s no doubt she wouldn’t hesitate to wield her claymore against either one of them if necessary. Still, even with an intimidating sword in front of him, Sheik can’t resist slipping in the last word.

“You would hinder the Champion in such a way?” he says.

Buliara scoffs in front of him. “If he were truly the Champion of old, he would have the Master Sword.”

Sheik frowns, another wisp of familiarity brushing some long-dead memory, but there’s no time to dwell on it, as Buliara effectively ushers them out of the throne room and towards the barracks.

“Captain Teake,” she calls as they enter the courtyard. A Gerudo guard perks up and begins approaching them. “Tell them what you know of the Yiga Clan.” Buliara does not stick around; Sheik bites his tongue and lowers his eyes, slipping back into character just as Captain Teake approaches the pair of them. Link clears his throat once, twice, and adopts that soft, gentle tone, those wide doe eyes. Sheik half listens, intently aware of Captain Teake’s curious gaze slipping over him more than once. He’s rather preoccupied with thoughts of Riju. He underestimated her, badly. _Very_ badly. However, the regret he has for opening his stupid mouth is one laced with admiration, that one so young could drive so hard a bargain already, something that was to the benefit of her people, and not just herself. There’s a smirk playing over his mouth. He’s impressed, as loathe as he is to admit it.

Link, however, is not. When Captain Teake wishes them luck, and Link turns on his heel, Sheik sticks close to his side, his arm just pressing against Link’s, as he carefully navigates the dusty streets with his eyes downward.

“I’m sorry,” Sheik whispers to him.

For a moment, Sheik wonders if Link even heard him; Gerudo Town seems to be a restless hub of motion and noise, and the streets are quite busy. But when they’re a little further past the markets and the vendors, he casts a quick glance in Sheik’s direction.

“You really can’t stop talking,” he murmurs.

“I would be offended if it weren’t true,” Sheik answers.

Link’s eyes crinkle at the corners, and even Sheik can't stop the smile on his mouth, beneath the veil. “I think she’d drive a hard bargain regardless,” Link says. “Seems like the type who’s trying to prove herself.”

“She unfortunately does. She’s a child who’s been mantled with a settlement her mother was successful in supporting. You saw how small she was on her mother’s throne; she has much growing to do. Throwing around the weight of her authority is perhaps not the way to do that, but she will learn.”

“Sheik, you don't have to do what she thinks she's commanded,” Link says. He pulls Sheik along with him as he takes a sharp corner, tucking them both into a secluded back alley. It's finally quiet, the noise from the busy central market a low murmur in the distance. Sheik does not like this sudden, serious turn in Link, that wide eyed innocence tainted by experiences Sheik has not been around for. “I'll find it, the heirloom, you don't have to–”

“No, I'll do it,” Sheik says. “I'd rather see the look on her face when I present it to her.”

“The Yiga Clan is dangerous,” Link says.

“That’s all the more reason why I should find it, rather than you,” Sheik says, cutting Link off. “We can’t have Hyrule’s Champion falling before he meets his destiny.”

“You’re so stubborn,” Link mutters under his breath. Sheik doesn’t answer, lest he laugh out loud. Link circles back to the inn. It doesn’t take long to put together their packs and slip out of the town.

“The soldiers I talked to said their hideout is in Karusa Valley,” Link says, when the town is a fair distance behind them.

“And that is where?” Sheik asks, one hand shading his eyes from the sun as he stares out into the sand. Link fiddles with the Sheikah slate, looking up, down, up, down, then showing it to Sheik.

“That way,” he says, pointing towards the left. Sheik follows the line of his hand, comparing it to the map. He sighs. They’ve got a long trek in front of them.

 

“I can’t change your mind on this.”

“No.”

“I can’t come with you.”

“No. Hold these.”

Sheik slips golden bracelets off his wrists, bangles that he’d nicked in the marketplace. Nothing Link needs to know about, although he seems to have a clue about their presence anyway, what with the frown he’s giving Sheik. He’s taken his veil off, but Sheik doesn’t have the time or the inclination to wrestle the thing out of his hair. The bracelets, however, have to go for now. Too noisy.

“I don’t like this,” Link says.

“It’ll be fine.”  
  
“I should be the one doing this–”

“Link,” Sheik says, turning towards him, “if you were still down in Gerudo Town right now, I’d be able to hear you scurrying around the streets from _here._ It’ll be fine. I’ll be in and out in no time.”

Link’s frown is a full on scowl now, but he doesn’t say anything, just takes more of Sheik’s things as he untangles bracelets from his arms and pulls weapons from his pack.

“There should be a Gerudo soldier in there, right?” Sheik asks. He’s busy strapping a knife to his lower back, a bow across his shoulders, the quiver somewhere out of the way.

“Barta. Went in trying to get the heirloom, but hasn’t returned.”

“Do you think she’s dead?”

“Sheik!”

He stops his preparations to glance at Link. “It’s a fair question,” he says, but it doesn’t feel so fair. The open hurt on Link’s face at even considering this stranger to be dead makes him feel shameful.

“I’ll find her,” Sheik amends, before Link can say anything. He tightens the quiver and fastens it around his chest, giving it one last tug before he deems himself ready. Nothing to be done for the scarlet silks he’s wearing, but at least the fabric is whisper-quiet.

“Please, Sheik, let me come with you–”

“Link, no.” He presses a gentle hand to Link’s chest, his fingertips gently pushing him back. “I promise it will be fine. I’ll be back shortly.” He’s off before Link can try to persuade him with any more words or hurt expressions. Really, it’s a wonder Link’s survived on his own for as long as he has. The boy’s heart is more tender than anything, easily swayed by those in need.

Perhaps that’s also what has drawn Sheik to him.

He creeps carefully along, hugging the shadowy wall of the valley the closer he gets. It was immediately apparent to the both of them when they'd stepped into Yiga Clan territory; at the sign of the first shred of crimson bunting flapping ragged in the gentle wind, Link had frozen in place, looking around like prey suspicious of a trap. They'd made their journey very carefully from that point on.

At the sight of the first statue, Sheik stops. He’s heard nothing but the low moan of the wind, and even now he hears nothing, but there’s something, something at the back of his mind. A tiny tickle of warning that halts his feet and puts all his senses on alert. He stands stock still in the sand for several moments, long enough that the shadows at his feet grow longer. There is something here, regardless of whether he can see it at the moment or not. It’s only a matter of time before he crosses paths with it, but in truth he’d rather not.

He takes quick, silent steps forward. Luckily the silk slippers on his feet are noiseless in the sand, and he remains quite quiet as he slips forward. More of the strange statues begin to pop up the further he goes. Once, for an instant, he stoops to examine one of the figures. There's nothing remarkable about it; the stone is cool to the touch here in the shade, the face is exaggerated but not disturbing. It could be nothing more than a remnant of the culture of the desert, and yet something about the statues nags at him. The texture of the stone is a well-known sensation beneath his fingers, the taste on the air familiar. But, maddeningly, there is no information connected to these ghostly memories. Sheik withdraws his hand and continues forward. There is a slight curve to the valley now, and he creeps along the edge of its wall carefully, lest he run into trouble around the next turn. There is nothing when he peeks around the corner, only more bunting and more statues, statues with–

Masks. Cloth masks. A bone white shred of fabric painted with the Crimson Eye, only it's reversed, the Sheikah blessing of foresight turned upside down, defiant. He stands on the edge of a shadow and pain, hurt, anger, lances through him like an arrow, so physical a sensation he grasps at his chest in a blind panic. But there is nothing there, no arrow piercing his heart. He is surrounded by nothing but sand and the wind.

 

He finds the guard immediately, locked in a makeshift, but sturdy, cell. It wasn’t that Sheik had to sneak into the hideout, once he found it; rather, it was startingly easy to just...walk right in. She doesn't look happy, but she's unfortunately helpless in the cell.

He creeps up to her and whispers through the wooden slats. “Are you hurt?”

Barta scowls at him, but shakes her head. “Nothing but my pride has been wounded.” That’s easy to see.

Sheik examines the cell door, but there are no obvious catches or opening. There’s not even a keyhole. “How did you get in here?” he asks the guard.

“I don’t know. I woke up in here, those Yiga Clan bastards already gone.”

“They bring you anything? Food? Water?”

“I don’t know how they do it. It _appears_ in here. I can never catch a glimpse of any of them. They’re like ghosts.”

Ghosts, haunting the far reaches of the desert. What need would ghosts have of an heirloom, then?

“Okay,” Sheik says. “I don’t know how to free you, but I will return.”

“What?” the guard asks. “Why are you here in the first place?”

“I seek an heirloom of your people.”

“The Thunder Helm?! Did Chief Riju send you?”

“Yes,” Sheik says. It’s only _mostly_ a lie, nothing the guard needs to know about. “I am looking for the Helm.”

“That’s what I was looking for, too. All of us have been looking for it, but the Yiga Clan– they’re crafty, and there’s magic about them.”

“Magic? What do you mean?”

“Dark stuff,” Barta says. She leans forward, a little closer to the open slats, and whispers even more lowly. “Drawing others into shadows. Disappearing in a burst of sparks, leaving only smoke and laughter behind.”

“That’s no magic,” Sheik whispers back, “just illusions.”

“I have watched my comrades disappear into puddles of shadow, dragged down by a Yiga clansmen. Who are you to tell me this, Sheikah? That these are just _illusions?”_

Sheik shifts uncomfortably, forcing down the doubt her words have inspired. It is no surprise that she should recognize his race in quarters as close as these, but he'd hoped to keep it hidden for just a bit longer. Before he can say anything, she continues, her tone that much more biting, as her anger seems to have been awakened. “Why are you here? What trickery is this?”

“It is no trick, I merely seek the heirloom, the helm–”

“Go. You will find it. Your _brethren_ have our treasure.”

There will be no reasoning with her now. Sheik clenches his jaw tight, and resists the urge to completely turn heel and leave this guard to her fate. “I am going to come back for you,” he hisses between the bars. She doesn't even grace him with an acknowledgement, just stares stoically to the side. Sheik rolls his eyes and steps away from the cell. There's no helping these stubborn warrior types, and there will be no help from her. He wasn't expecting it, but he also wasn't expecting the guard to still be alive and well, if only humiliated.

The hideout, so far, is disarmingly quiet. Sheik almost wishes it were noisy instead; while he certainly has an advantage when it comes to potentially hearing any approaching footsteps, that also means _he_ can be heard if he takes a single misstep. Not that he _would,_ of course, but mistakes can happen, and he'd rather prepare for any potentially bad situation.

 Also disarming is the sensation that his feet seem to be leading him along without a moment's hesitation. As soon as he slipped into the hideout he had been assaulted by that frustrating, uneasy sensation of familiarity, that same strange thought that he's already encountered a dozen times since leaving his cave in the tundra. There are moments that feel repetitive, like he's traveled the same exact path with the same exact weight on his shoulders a thousand times before. And maybe he has; maybe in that far reach of his mind, his life was following the same path it follows now. But there’s no way to know that for sure, at least, not until he has some understanding of his previous life.

Sheik slips around a corner, peering into an empty room. It’s silent save for the moan of the wind, a sad, lonely sound echoing through the open space. It looks like some kind of storage space, a path snaking its way between stacks of crates and boxes. There’s a bit of sand scattered on the floor, like it’d been tracked in, and torches flicker on the far end of the room. Sheik can feel goosebumps raise over the skin of his arms, a reaction both to the coolness of the room and that uneasy feeling from earlier roaring into the forefront of his mind. It’s too quiet, this hideout is too empty. Something is bound to go wrong at any moment; his instincts are bracing for it. He slips around another stacks of crates, peeks around the corner. Nothing.

He’s across from what looks like a hallway. He looks around again, and quietly darts for the doorway. He feels nauseous with the intensity of his agitation, and stops a moment to breathe. It does nothing to quell that nausea, but it calms his heart, if only minutely. There’s a room at the end of the hallway, empty, naturally. There’s some arrows stashed in a pot, which hopefully means a bow–

-Isn’t far. Sheik picks up the bow from the floor and looks it over. It looks to be in good condition, simple in design, flexible and yet rugged. He slings it over his shoulder, along with Link’s bow, and stashes the arrows in his quiver. He looks about the room, in case he’s missed something, but nothing else jumps out at him, except–

One of the strange statues, scattered in the valley before the hideout, rests by the wall. Sheik takes a hesitant step closer, brushing his fingers over the rounded top of the statue, feeling the ragged cloth beneath his fingertips. He straightens up and examines the wall. Nothing looks out of place, but he has the strangest feeling…

A push with the palm of his hand, and he feels the wall move the slightest bit. Another, firmer push, and the wall scrapes along the dirt floor, a sizeable opening revealing itself. He pushes it far enough to peer through. It leads to the outside, some kind of basic courtyard strung with the red bunting he’d seen in the valley leading to the hideout. He takes a silent step through the opening, the stone scraping against the bare skin of his stomach.

The sun has already set, which means he’s spent more time within the hideout than he had realized. He shivers in the cool night air, rubbing his hands over the bare skin of his shoulders. There are a few torches lit in this courtyard, their flickering light casting long, wavering shadows over the sand. Sheik remains pressed against the wall, examining this courtyard for any sign of life in this otherwise empty hideout. A glimmer of gold catches his eye, effectively distracting him. There, to the far right of the courtyard, something metallic glimmers in the torchlight. He takes off like an arrow, abandoning his caution and trading it for hope.

The helm rests on top of a crate, and Sheik lifts it easily. The metal is warm, nearly sparking in his hands, and the green gems set in its front glitter brightly in the golden light of the torches. Sheik stares at it a moment, but it is unmistakably the Thunder Helm. It _has_ to be; nothing this ornate would just be lying around a thieves’ hideout, not if they had any sense.

“Who are you?”

Sheik nearly yelps at the sudden voice in his ear. He spins around violently, but the person behind him is gone now, leaving nothing but a trace of smoke across the sand.

“You’re one of those Gerudo girls. Another one foolish enough to think she can take that treasure back.”

Sheik only manages a glimpse before the figure disappears again– a flash of dark red in the corner of his eye. His fingers slip to the knife at his back. There’s not much he can do about the lack of subtlety except pray for an opportunity.

“No, not Gerudo. Sheikah!” Laughter trills out in the courtyard. Sheik manages to follow the sound quickly enough that he catches more than just a glance of this person. A strong body, face hidden by a white mask with that ugly reversed Eye upon it, like a living, breathing version of one of the statues that littered the valley leading to the hideout. A puff of smoke, and the figure is gone, its laughter trailing behind it. Sheik manages to unsheath the knife at his back, fumbling with the helm in one hand. He searches the courtyard almost frantically, trying to scope out every nook and cranny without leaving his spot against the edge of the wall. There are nothing but shadows as far as he can see– no, wait, there–

Sheik hefts the knife in his hand, attuning to the weight and balance of the blade. There’s a second, a pause, when everything grinds to a stop– his heartbeat, the wind, every breath coming out of his lungs– and then the figure begins to appear, a warm center of light growing on the far side of the courtyard. Sheik hurls the knife in the direction of the light.

A pained cry rings out in the courtyard, but Sheik doesn’t pay it much attention; he’s nocking an arrow to his bow, the helm at his feet, and carefully approaching the figure who’s now writhing in the sand.

“Who are you?” Sheik demands. He aims the arrow straight for the person's heart, even though his own heart thunders in his chest. The figure in the sand stills in its movements, and almost an instant too late Sheik realizes it’s reaching for the knife now embedded in its shoulder. He drops his bow in the hurry and dives across the figure, hands somehow curling around the knife’s hilt first. He rips it out, ignoring the figure’s pained cries, and holds it, blood and metal gleaming in the torchlight, to the figure’s throat.

“Who _are_ you?” he demands again, this time much more commanding, much more serious now that the threat of hurt lies along the edge of a blade. The figure beneath him twists, a buck of motion meant to throw him off, but Sheik is slipping into something like instinct. He braces himself against the movement, pressing more of his weight onto the figure’s chest, crushing the breath out of the person beneath him.

“You ask who I am,” the figure wheezes out, “but you will not give me the courtesy of an answer, either, Sheikah. What is one such as you doing so far from your precious home?”

“I am a wanderer.”

“You are a liar.”

“And you are a _thief,_ ” Sheik says, the knife pressing further against the figure’s throat. “I am here to take back that which is not yours.”

“And my life, by the look of it.”

Anger is welling up in him now, as the figure begins to gasp out in laughter, and Sheik fights to keep control of himself. Black shadows are creeping into the edges of his vision as his focus boils down to the figure in front of him. He presses the knife harder; red blood begins to soak through the white fabric of the figure’s mask. “That’s right,” he says, “your life belongs to me. Your breath, your heartbeat, it’s _mine._ Would you refuse me again, now that I hold something so fragile in my hands?”

The laughter below him has stopped, the figure cocking his head to the side. The reversed Eye stares at Sheik with curiosity, with reverence, with something borne of a past he doesn’t remember.

“Master?” the figure beneath him croaks out. Sheik furrows his brow in confusion, but the moment of uncertainty is not enough to stop the tide that sweeps over him. The shadows gathering like cobwebs in his eyes sweep over him, plunging him into a darkness that leaves him wholly unaware of his surroundings. There is only a numbness in his fingertips, a scream echoing inside his head, and then, a sudden, jolting gasp of air.

When he comes to, he is sprawled out in the sand, he is shivering in the early morning air, and he is alone.

 

“Here.” Sheik drops the Thunder Helm at Link’s feet, startling him from his doze. The guard– Barta, her name is, that’s right– glances behind her shoulder, but doesn’t stop her slow jog away from the hideout and back towards the Town. Sheik doesn’t even remember how he got her out of her cell. “The heirloom. Guard it with you life.”

He doesn’t wait for Link’s answer, scooping up a pack and following Barta’s quickly-disappearing footsteps back to civilization.


End file.
